


Love is Not Just a Word

by Silver_Moonshine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 15:54:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Moonshine/pseuds/Silver_Moonshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days John wondered why he stayed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is Not Just a Word

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock belongs to the BBC and its writers, not me.
> 
> This could be interpreted as slash or non-slash - whichever makes you happy I guess.

Sometimes John wondered why he stayed. Everyone commented on it – in that vaguely bewildered tone of voice that only served to irritate him, their eyes narrow as if they were trying to figure out what was wrong with him. Sometimes a sharp comment was enough to make them apologetically back off. Sometimes he couldn’t answer.

It was true that Sherlock drove him mad. Was impossible, and rude, and inconsiderate, and utterly _infuriating_. There were days when John seriously contemplated leaving, just packing his bags and disappearing without a word, because the urge to kill the arrogant ponce was enough to test him at the best of times.

But then there were also days when Sherlock would stride through the front door, hang his scarf and coat, and zone in on John where he sat in his chair. Sometimes John would be writing, sometimes reading, sometimes thinking. Whatever he was doing, it was completely ignored.

Often Sherlock brought in with him the faint scent of formaldehyde, and occasionally the unmistakable scent of blood, but sometimes it was simply the fresh scent of the season. Whatever the cause, John quickly found himself immersed.

Sherlock, without a sound, would drop to his knees at John’s feet, and lean over his lap – uncaring of whatever book, or newspaper, or laptop he was crushing beneath his torso – and wrap deceptively slender arms around John’s waist. That noble nose would bury itself into a warm neck, invariably chapped lips would brush a fluttering pulse point, and silky hair would tickle John’s skin, somehow numbing the vague remnant ache in his shoulder like nothing else could.

John could never find it in him to complain. Instead he would drop whatever he was holding, open his legs, and pull Sherlock in until they were pressed together. The soldier’s grip firm around angular shoulders, and Sherlock’s lazily wound round a firm waist.

The conversation from there always went the same.

‘Alright?’

Sherlock would grunt in reply, and then use a single word descriptor of his current state. Unusually, it was in these rare stolen moments that the detective seemed to bypass his usual pride and scorn for weakness. Instead he would reply with the absolute truth. It was only one word, but it was honest. John treasured every one. Sometimes it was ‘tired’, ‘frustrated’ or ‘hungry’. Even more rarely it was ‘stuck’.

‘Tired.’

There was a pause.

Now came a short phrase. Always directed at John. Always positive. Always a compliment.

‘You smell nice.’

Sherlock hummed pleasurably for emphasis and burrowed deeper into John’s hold, smiling again the delicate skin of the doctor’s neck as he was hugged tighter in response. Sometimes they remained as so for a few long seconds. Sometimes minutes. On one memorable occasion, hours.

And then Sherlock would sigh and pull back, rising smoothly as if his knees weren’t aching, and then go about his business seemingly unaffected by the moment he’d just broken.

But John was always affected.

The feeling of sharp bones beneath his palms lingered, softened as the sensation was by taut skin and smooth cotton. The faint scent of chemicals and a hint of spice continued to make his head spin. The weight of a heavy head trustingly pressed against his shoulder remained carved into his flesh deeper than any scar. The caress of gentle lips against his fluttering pulse continued to tickle his senses with every beat of his heart.

He knew Sherlock could read his reaction in the way his pulse quickened, or the way his muscles flexed, or maybe even by the way he breathed, and normally that would send him running…

But every time Sherlock leant into him like that, it felt a lot like ‘I love you’.

And John would fall that little bit harder.

Staying was easy after that.


End file.
